


'tis the damn season

by tellmeagain



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28081107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellmeagain/pseuds/tellmeagain
Summary: Your next words are cruel, you know they are, and the fact in itself does nothing but fuel you. You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “You know, your dad would be so proud of you, Quinn.”
Relationships: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	'tis the damn season

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during Season's 5 100. In all honesty, not totally sure how canon-compliant this is because I tapped out of the show sometime during season 4 LOL. The events in the episode itself have also been altered and rearranged a bit for story's sake.
> 
> I don't usually tackle Quinn and Santana's angstier side because so many other authors do it so well, but hopefully I didn't butcher it (and them) too much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone :)

You return to Lima for the glee club’s final week, and you’re not even sure why.

Just looking at Rachel makes you want to punch her nose in and gouge her eyes out—in that order, so she can see for herself that maybe she _should’ve_ gotten that nose job junior year—and you would’ve loved the loft to yourself for a week, not having to dodge her mousy figure bouncing from one corner to another. Extra shifts at the diner wouldn’t have hurt, either.

But _no_ , you’re on a plane right now bumping elbows with Kurt for more space on the armrest that stands between you two, on your way to see all the people you call your second family—your chosen family.

So maybe _that’s_ why you come back, but who knows. The jury’s still out on that one.

Seeing Brittany, _touching_ Brittany doesn’t make your chest ache in the way that it used to. She’s the first person you hug once you stride into the choir room, and the smile she shoots you when you pull away lets you know that, yes, you two are good; will always be good, no matter what. 

Tina’s nearly on the verge of tears, as if you haven’t been back here a handful of times since graduating two years ago, but it’s hard to ignore the small lump in your own throat because the circumstances are different this time. There’s a missing puzzle piece amongst all of you in the shape of a 6’4” lovable giant. Thinking about it for too long has never been good for you—for any of you—so you push it to the back of your mind to greet Sam, Mike, and the rest of the alumni.

You get to Quinn last. When she goes to hug you, the white pearls around her neck feel cold, protruding into your skin. “San,” she greets in a graceful exhale, and you tip your chin in silent acknowledgement before you both take seats on opposite sides of the room. Turns out, one night stands don’t always turn into revisited friendships and blossoming romances. You’d be lying if you said you felt heartbroken over the fact.

You weren’t built to love Quinn Fabray, and vice versa.

Songs are sung and speeches are made, and an hour later, you’re making dinner plans with Mercedes and Brittany, standing in the same hallways that held all your secrets until they, forcibly, weren’t secrets anymore.

On your way out to your car, you see Quinn greeted by this clean-cut, smug reincarnation of a young Jordan Belfort. They kiss and make googly-eyes at each other, and you grimace because they look like a couple who got off the wrong exit on their way to the local country club.

 _“Biff?”_ you nearly lose your appetite at dinner when Mercedes acts as your informant later that night. “You’re just being funny, right?”

Mercedes just shakes her head, laughing. “I wish. And he’s got money. Like, _money_ money. Going off of what Quinn tells me over the phone, she’s looking to go the distance with the guy.” 

“God,” you mutter, poking through your side of fries because you knew all that bullshit Quinn spewed at the wedding about men not defining her anymore was, indeed, exactly that: bullshit. 

So when Mike tells you the following afternoon that Biff is inviting some of you to Breadstix for dinner, you jump at the opportunity to see the Yale catalog models in action. 

You’ve been sitting at the table for no longer than ten minutes when you start to regret your decision because watching them up close feels too much like watching a young, courting Russell and Judy Fabray. It makes you sick to your stomach. Every smile Quinn cracks, every laugh she bellows; it’s not _her_. Not in the least bit. 

At some point after the appetizers are cleared, she excuses herself to go to the bathroom, and you have to slide out of the booth anyway to let her through, so in a moment of spontaneity, you decide to follow her in. 

“Watch my purse,” is all you mutter to Puck when he shoots you a weary glance, because it may or may not get stupid ugly in a couple minutes, and you’d appreciate having all your things ready to go should you need to storm out afterwards. 

You wait patiently as Quinn takes her time in the stall, occasionally fixing your hair in the mirror and ignoring the girl who has to step around you to get to the sinks and wash her hands. For a second, she looks at you as if she’s trying to decipher whether or not you’re a bathroom attendant, and you shove a paper towel square in her hands just to get her to leave. 

Quinn emerges from her stall moments later, a demure smile on her face as she spots you. It’s the first time you’ve really looked at her since you bid her goodbye outside of the hotel the morning after Valentine’s Day, and the hazel that swims behind her eyes strikes a chord deep in your heart, tugging insistently—just like it did back then. Only difference is, what was once lust and warmth is now smugness and conceit. 

“That was a joke, right? What I just saw out there? Because if so, I gotta hand it to you; that was something else. Brava.” The words drip off your tongue free of humor and genuineness, and the laugh Quinn musters up mirrors your tone as she starts washing her hands. You stubbornly block the sensor to her soap dispenser and she huffs before moving to the next sink over. “Nice necklace, by the way. Seriously, did the queen mail it to you herself, or—?”

“I’m not doing this, Santana.” She flicks her hands twice against the bowl of the sink to dry them before reaching for a couple paper towels. “You’ve been in New York for, what, a year now? I thought maybe you’d learn how to grow up in the time being.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. No pun intended, but if it’s there, then let’s talk about it.”

Quinn tries to step around you to throw her towel away, but you grab it from her hands and do it for her. She clicks her heel against the tile of the floor in frustration, her eyes darting towards the door. “They’re waiting for us.”

“I don’t give a shit about what they’re doing. What are _you_ doing? Because whatever it is, it’s pathetic to watch.”

“Then don’t watch.”

It’s all she says, and you feel your eyes searching frantically for any ounce of real emotion that might be bottled up in this girl in front of you. You look for the Quinn who helped you cook dinner the days both of your parents were working late freshman year, the Quinn who cleaned up your bathroom the first time you got sick at one of Puck’s parties, the Quinn who told you—who _showed_ you—that you were still worthy of love after you broke up with Brittany. 

Instead, all you find is indifference, and it stings so much more than all the times she’s slapped you. Your next words are cruel, you know they are, and the fact in itself does nothing but fuel you. You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “You know, your dad would be so proud of you, Quinn.”

It does what it’s supposed to—reaches her, unlocks something—because in an instant, the skin beneath her left eye is twitching, and she clenches her jaw so hard you think you’d be able to see bone if you squinted hard enough. “Don’t you _ever_ go there.”

She’s standing so close to you now that if you were to raise your arm, your fingers would be buried in neat, blonde curls. It makes you laugh, again. “You know who you’re talking to, right? That intimidation tactic has never worked on me. Try again.”

“You know what’s pathetic, Santana?” Quinn asks, her eyes narrowing quizzically, and you know better than to cower when she takes another half-step closer to you. You expect—maybe even hope—to smell the familiar waft of her shampoo, but instead, you’re clouded with a seductive Chanel No 5. “You thinking that you get to pick and choose when you want to care about me. I mean seriously, it’s been months since we’ve so much as acknowledged each other, so what makes you think that your opinion holds any weight right now?” 

“That’s all you got for me?” you challenge, taking a moment to flick your hair over your shoulder. “C’mon. You’re slipping, Q.” 

There’s a flash in Quinn’s eyes upon hearing the age-old nickname. Maybe it’s something of yearning and surrender, or maybe it’s just the poor lighting of the bathroom. Either way, she says nothing. 

So you tell her, “I’ve always cared.” Your voice is gentle in a way you wish it wasn’t, and your eyes train on the neatness of Quinn’s mascara as her gaze lowers to the floor. “Even when we’re not talking, even when we’re fighting.”

“Biff’s a good guy,” Quinn says, though you’re not sure who the words are directed towards. All you know is you’ve reached what little threshold you’ve held for this train-wreck of a conversation.

“So we lie to each other now, too, huh?” you retort, and you make your way out of the bathroom without another word.

*

You both return to the table, and all the guys muster up half-hearted laughs when Biff cracks a joke about wondering what in the _world_ takes ladies so long in the restroom. He and Quinn hold hands under the table, Mike is on your other side trying to get a read on you, and you honestly just want to go _home_ , but you shake the thought aside and ask him to pass over the parmesan.

You knew you should’ve just stayed in New York.

*

It’s Brittany who suggests that the three of you do a number together. 

You’ve never really been able to say no to her, but this time, you just don’t know if you can say yes. But she’s looking at you with those wishful eyes and pretty much bouncing in her seat with pure excitement, and it’s not until you hear Quinn speak up on her other side that you find the energy to lift your gaze from your lap.

“I think that’s a great idea, Britt,” Quinn smiles, and you know her well enough to know that she’s being completely genuine. To her credit, she’s always been that way with Brittany. At one point in high school, she cared for her just as much as you did.

They’re both looking at you, now, and Brittany reaches to unfold your arms from your chest with a growing grin. You want to roll your eyes, but to hell if you’ll ever disappoint her and to hell if you’ll ever give Quinn the satisfaction of not being up for a challenge. 

When you finally agree and Quinn tells you both that you can rehearse in her basement, _“just like old times,”_ you plaster on the fakest smile you’ve managed all week. 

*

Being back at Quinn’s house is...weird. You haven’t been inside for this long since the beginning of sophomore year, save for when you would stop by some days after school while she was recovering from her accident, and you wonder how the hell Judy makes use for so much empty space. It feels haunting, almost. 

You wonder how Quinn finds it in her to still stay here when she’s in town, let alone bringing along Mr. GQ, who’s sitting in on your rehearsal from the comfort of the couch against the back wall. He types away at his phone and crosses his legs in the way asshole CEOs do—in the way that makes their slacks look three sizes too tight—and you shake your head to focus on the choreo Brittany’s going over.

It’s not supposed to be this hard. Even when you and Quinn were at odds with each other in high school, you always knew how to think and move in tandem, but the tension between you two right now is so palpable you could probably grab it from the air and hold it in your hands. 

You hate it. Not just because half of Brittany’s choreography involves you and your longest-standing frenemy feeling each other up every other eight-count, but because fighting with Quinn— _actually_ fighting with her in a way that cuts much deeper than bantering and exchanging barbs—exhausts you. Maybe when she fucked you at Schue’s wedding she took all the stamina that you needed to hold your own with her. 

Or maybe it’s just hard to remember that you’re pissed at each other when the tips of her fingers trail down the side of your stomach, tickling your skin because at some point in the last twenty minutes, the three of you decided to lose the shirts and rehearse in sports bras. Something about it being similar to the costumes Brittany has in mind.

The fact that Biff is living every McKinley boy’s _dream_ right now but is still more intrigued with emails than he is with a half-naked Unholy Trinity is just added to the ever growing list of reasons as to why you hate him. You tell Quinn this much when Brittany runs to her car to grab her phone charger and you and Quinn head to the kitchen for a water break. She responds by handing you a water bottle from her fridge and muttering a petulant, “Not now.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot I need to be penciled in to have an actual conversation with you. Is there some secretary I should go through to access your G-cal?”

“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” Quinn laughs, though you know she believes this is the farthest thing from funny. “Seriously, it’s like trying to talk back and forth with a brick wall. Just turn it off.”

“I’ll turn it off when Lord Douchebag downstairs turns off his phone,” you say. “Not to mention talking to _you_ now is like talking to your mother.”

“Mm, that one’s getting stale, San. Think of something new.” Quinn laughs again, and this time it’s for real. The sheer pretentiousness of it all makes you want to slap her, but Brittany’s jogging back through the front door before you have time to raise a hand. 

“A few more run-throughs then we can pick it up tomorrow?” she offers, and you and Quinn muster up half-synchronized _yeah, sounds good_ s before the three of you head back downstairs. 

In the middle of your last run-through, you feel Quinn’s nails dig into your hip bone, and you wonder if she hears the brief sigh that escapes you over the music that blares on Brittany’s phone. You wonder if she remembers that she pressed her lips to that exact same spot in a ratty, old hotel room over a year ago, and she did so in a way that made you _want_ —want her, want everything. 

You doubt it. Quinn Fabray never looks back.

Biff offers a half-hearted clap when you guys finish, and you bid him an even more half-hearted goodbye before you and Brittany get dressed and make your way back out to her car. 

“You two are fighting,” Brittany says simply once you’re settled next to her in the passenger’s seat. There’s an unreadable emotion behind the way she says it, and whatever it may be, it makes you want to crawl into the backseat and hide. When you stay quiet, Brittany presses. “Did something happen?”

You roll your lips together and look down at your lap, shaking your head. “It’s nothing, B,” you murmur, because it’s much easier than bringing up bathroom ambushes and trying to stop Quinn from turning into her mother.

Brittany allows you the time it takes her to start the car and pull out onto the street before speaking up again. “It’s _not_ nothing,” she says, because she’s the only person who can calmly call you out on your bullshit other than Quinn herself. “I hate it when you guys are like this,” she adds, quietly, and it feels like a sharp slice to your chest. “I know you hate it, too.”

You sigh, slightly frustrated. “Everything’s just so hard with her.” You sound tired, and it’s not because of the two hours of dancing you just endured. From the corner of your eye, Brittany chews thoughtfully on a thumbnail. 

“I think you and Quinn are always on the same page about things,” she says. “You just have really different ways of getting there.”

“I don’t know about that, this time. I don’t think we’re even reading the same book.”

“Sure you are,” Brittany offers easily. “Quinn doesn’t actually love Biff. She doesn’t _think_ she does, either.” 

You wait for her to say more, but she just starts humming to whatever song’s playing on the radio. So, you guess that’s that. “She told you that?”

“She didn’t have to.” A beat. “I’m the smart one, remember?”

At that, you chuckle softly. “Yeah, Britt. You are.”

*

Much to your chagrin, it’s thoughts of Quinn that cloud the forefront of your mind as you try to fall asleep. 

Thoughts of her, and of Rachel. You’re not sure which one is more unsettling. 

Fighting with both of them sucks, you’ll admit. If this was still high school, it’d be just another normal week, but it _isn’t_ , and somewhere along the road you started actually caring about them, so as you lay curled in bed, your bitch facade wiped away for the day, all you feel is this dull longing for things to be fine again. 

There’s no question that you’ll continue to hold your own with Rachel until she decides to stop acting like the entitled bitch she’s been her entire life. So, luckily, she leaves your mind as quickly as she infiltrated it.

Quinn stays there, though, lingering like mist after a storm. 

You and her have always been like dynamite; loud, sharp explosions with no warning or hesitation. Booming, unstoppable, assertive. Demanding of attention.

For a while, it worked; when you two led the Cheerios and, frankly, led the entire school, but then stuff happened—a baby, an outing—and those moments of alignment and harmony found themselves to be sparse, far and few in between. 

And yet, you still find yourself calling this girl one of your best friends. You’re not sure if that makes you loyal or insane. 

The thing is, even when you and Quinn were getting along best, your dynamic was still like this. It’ll _never_ be marshmallows and fluff for you two—not in the traditional sense, at least. Everything is warped when it comes to Quinn. 

When the two of you laid asleep together in her hotel room, she delicately wrapped her fingers around your wrist the whole night instead of holding your hand like a normal person. It would’ve been... _awkward_ , bizarre, if it was anyone else. But the way her thumb brushed ever so slightly across your pulse point there somehow packed all the tenderness in the world with it. It was like she wanted to feel the blood coursing through you, wanted the reassurance that you were _there_ , with her.

So, no, maybe you and Quinn will never have a storybook type of relationship that people yearn for, but whatever you two _do_ have…

It can be perfect, in a way only you two will ever understand. 

But for now, you just have to figure out how to hold a conversation without wanting to rip her head off. 

For the sake of glee club, for the sake of your guys’ performance and all the hard work Brittany is pouring into it, for the sake of your mental health, you vow to be nice for the rest of the week. 

Then again, there’s no promising what’ll come out of your mouth the next time you have to lay eyes on her trophy boyfriend, so _nice_ is a stretch. 

Civil, at the very least. 

*

You and Brittany are back at Quinn’s house the next day to squeeze in another rehearsal before you perform for everyone tomorrow, and you’re coordinating outfits when Quinn tugs you upstairs to help look for her mom’s hot glue gun. 

“It has to be the best performance of the week,” she says as she rummages through cabinets, and you take it as your cue to scope out the drawers. 

“No shit,” you mumble, and after a few moments, Quinn places her hand on your arm to halt your movement. “What?” 

“It has to be the best,” she repeats, more definitively this time. _“We_ have to be the best. And we can’t do that if we’re...fighting, or whatever the hell we’re doing.”

You tip your chin defiantly, ready to gloat about how—as usual—you were one step ahead of her and came to this conclusion last night. But then that would involve explaining why exactly she was on your mind, and how many times can you say that _Quinn_ was the one to give in and call a truce? So, you let out a quiet sigh and nod your head. “Yeah.”

Quinn drops the hand that was wrapped around your arm, and it dangles at her side. Your skin inexplicably itches for her touch, and you fold your arms over your chest in an attempt to subside it. “Ok, then,” she murmurs, because there’s not much else to say. This doesn’t exactly _feel_ like a make-up of any sorts, just a temporary ceasefire, but you feel yourself still wanting to try, and the words tumble out before you can think twice.

“Should we talk about it?” 

Quinn’s eyes flicker to yours, a reserved look on her face that tells you you’re gonna have to steer this conversation yourself. “Talk about what?” 

You shrug. _“Whatever the hell we’re doing,”_ you mimic her words, and Quinn leans her hip against the granite countertop, gazing at you so deeply you think maybe she’s peeking into your soul. 

She’s always been good at that: silently reaching parts of you that you don’t think you can even reach yourself. Sometimes, you hate her for it, but not right now. “I know you think I’m being ridiculous, but I’m not,” she says, lowly. 

“You do not need him to be somebody.” You say the words for her, the ones that have been etched across every single one of her expressions, her looks, her _everything_ , and Quinn fails to hide the way her face recoils. “I mean, what happened to the girl who rambled to me about fish on bicycles or whatever?”

“She was just a girl,” Quinn says, and it doesn’t come out as strong as she wants it to, so she resumes the hot glue gun search. You huff slightly before following suit. 

“Didn’t feel that way, trust me,” you mutter, shuffling through miscellaneous take-out menus and keychains. Quinn seems to catch onto what you mean, but she says nothing. “And besides, I liked her. I liked _you_. Like, yeah, you were still kind of a bitch or whatever, but at least you knew your worth.” You take a moment to pause. “Or, I _thought_ you did.”

Quinn pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. “That’s not fair.”

“Sure, it is. I mean, c’mon, _that_ guy downstairs? You’re better than him, and you know that.”

She stays quiet for a long time, and you start to take it as an indication that the conversation has abruptly ended when she speaks up again. “And what if I don’t?”

You pinch your eyebrows together, because...is she _serious?_ You slide a drawer closed and turn to face her. Because, this, she’s going to need to hear loud and clear. “Quinn, you had a baby at sixteen, you got kicked out of your home, and you were temporarily paralyzed in a car crash all before you graduated high school. You’re _strong_ , Q. You deserve someone who can make you feel proud about surviving through all of those things. Not someone who makes you want to hide them.” 

Quinn’s chest heaves with every breath she takes, and when she doesn’t say anything, you open the first drawer you dug through when you two came upstairs and pull out the hot glue gun. 

“By this way, this was here the whole time,” you tell her before making your way back to the basement.

She follows you down minutes later, and to your surprise, you can’t find it in you to feel any anger or resentment when she lets Biff pull her into a quick kiss.

Quinn’s always been good at switching her masks with the snap of a finger.

*

You don’t really talk again before your performance the following afternoon, and it goes swimmingly well. You didn’t expect anything less than the enthusiastic cheers you’re currently getting—you three sat atop the social pyramid at this school for a reason, after all—but still, your heart feels full and your chest feels light. Like you know a small part of you will always have a place here, with these people.

Quinn looks happy, too. Her smile actually reaches her eyes, and when she laughs at the way Brittany drapes over her, you swear the entire room can feel it. (Maybe because it’s easier than admitting that it’s just you.)

Biff is lucky that April’s the one to call him out on his bullshit, and he’s even luckier that Quinn gets everyone to disperse before you can get a word in. 

It’s moments like these you miss Finn Hudson and his knack for chair-kicking.

*

You’re not really sure where exactly you and Quinn stand now, but when Brittany urges that the three of you grab dinner at the diner you would raid during cheat days on the Cheerios, you both agree.

The hostess seats you in one of the back booths. It’s the first time you’ve seen Quinn outside of a dress in over a year, and the simple cardigan and leggings that hug her body flood your mind with memories of baby bumps and social downfalls.

Maybe that marked the downfall of you and Quinn, too. The launching of a pattern of you two not being there for each other when you should’ve been. If you were the type of friends who actually apologized to each other, then you think you would, but you’re not and you won’t.

Then again, the way you wrapped your arm around Quinn’s waist at prom and the way she held your hand in the choir room when Mr. Schue sang his goodbye to the seniors surpassed any lame apology either of you could’ve mustered up. 

Ironically, in spite of all of the horrible things you’ve said to each other, your relationship has always been more than your words.

“I loved today,” Brittany muses once you guys place your orders and the waitress takes your menus away. “My friends at MIT are super cool and smart and whatever, but nothing feels like it does with you two. We’re, like, friend-soulmates or something. You know?”

It’s silent for a few moments before Quinn nods her head, a tiny smile on her lips. “Yeah, B. I think I do,” she says, and the way she looks at Brittany, the way she looks at _you_ , lets you know that she means it as much as she can possibly mean something. 

So, you nod your head in agreement. “Totally.”

The conversation eventually pivots towards easy things like TV shows you guys have been watching and the validity of mixing mayonnaise and ketchup as a single condiment to dip french fries in. It’s the first time you three have hung out like this in years—the first time you’ve been _just_ San and Britt and Q; before you were the top cheerleaders, before you were singers and dancers, before you were coined the Unholy Trinity. 

Just three friends. That’ll always mean something to you. Even when Biff comes to pick up Quinn and she kisses him through the driver’s side window before scurrying to the passenger’s seat.

*

The next day is Mercedes and Rachel’s diva-off, and while you thought it was somewhat ridiculous at first, you find yourself excited for it now, if anything to watch Rachel Berry lose in front of everybody. It’ll happen, you’re sure of it, because she’s never had _anything_ on Cedes. You voice this to Kurt in the back of the choir room while everyone files in on their own accord.

He rolls his eyes petulantly. “Will you drop your little spat for a few more days and be nice? It’s one of our last times in this room, so don’t spoil it.”

All you do in response is grimace. “Did you just say the word _spat?_ I mean, c’mon, what year is it?”

You earn a laugh from Jake, who tries not to act like he wasn’t eavesdropping, and Kurt just crosses his arms and legs before swiveling in his seat and facing the front of the room.

You’re thankful he does, because with the way he rides Rachel’s ass sometimes, it’s hard to look him in the eye for too long.

The more you think about it, _everybody_ does. It causes a flare of frustration that fans from your chest outwards and reaches the very tips of you. How can this menace of a girl send someone to a crackhouse, play victim all throughout high school, throw a tantrum every time she didn’t get a solo, and still be regarded as _the_ Rachel Berry? It’s ridiculous; laughable even.

You decide, then, that it’s time to make that known. Just in case people have forgotten how vile and manipulative of a human being she can really be.

A few more minutes pass before Mr. Schue claps his hands together and calls for everyone’s attention, and you suppress a scoff. Because, yeah, you appreciate the guy and everything he’s done for you, but sometimes, he still treats some of you like you’re still his students. 

And, as usual, your mouth moves before your mind does. “Excuse me, Schuester.” You stand up from your seat, and out of the corner of your eye, you feel Brittany glancing up wearily, but you shrug it off. There’s just a few things you need to say. 

You tear down Rachel with little to no effort, insulting her looks and habits and tendencies, and really, _everything_ about her. It’s cute when Mr. Schue tries to intervene, truly, but even he knows the train has long left the station. 

The words fly out of your mouth rather calmly, but your chest feels like it’s on fire. You’re just so _mad_ and frustrated and pissed off, and it’s not until you slip in her faux prom queen victory that you decide to wrap things up. From the horrified look smeared across her face, you know you cut deep.

When you take your seat again, all you feel is pride. 

*

Everyone awkwardly disbands the choir room because _of course_ she plays victim and storms out with Mercedes hot on her heels, so you light a cigarette behind the lot where all the buses are docked, because sometimes being back at this school—being back in this town—is more than you can actually handle, and this is all that will calm you down right now. No one’s bold enough to approach you after what you just unleashed, and for that, you’re somewhat thankful. You don’t need to be checked up on. Don’t want to be. 

You’re reaching down to swipe flecks of ash off the hem of your dress sometime later when you hear a familiar voice floating around the corner. When you realize it’s just Quinn, you decide to ignore it. But then you start to hear words like _daughter_ and _Puck_ and _tattoo_ , and needless to say, it piques your interest.

Biff sounds angry— _really_ angry. He starts spitting out these harsh, ridiculous scenarios about Beth hounding him for money, and it’s not like you were a saint when it came to comments about Quinn and her pregnancy, but a flare of protectiveness still surges through you, and something inside of you clenches when you hear him call Quinn a slut. 

By the time you’ve rounded the corner, she’s twisted his nose and has him nearly dropping to his knees. Her eyes flash with surprise when she hears your heels clicking towards them, and you ignore it in favor of grabbing Biff by the back of his collared jacket and harshly pulling him back upright. “What the fuck did you just call her?”

“Santana,” Quinn says, her tone warning, but she doesn’t say _stop_ , so you shift your grip to Biff’s dress shirt, bunching it slightly so it tightens around his neck. 

“Jesus Christ, this one doesn’t stop, does she?” he huffs, his eyes still trained on Quinn before they flicker down to the cigarette that hangs limply from your free hand. “I could’ve guessed she was a chain smoker, too.”

“And I’ll put it out on your pretty little face if you don’t get the hell out of here.” You block Quinn from his view so he’s forced to look at you. “Seriously, who the hell do you think you are? Did your phone die or something, is that why you’re trying to act like a big man right now?”

“God, get your hands off of me.” Biff maneuvers out of your grip without much effort, but he doesn’t make a move towards either you or Quinn; just smooths out the lapels of his jacket and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Crazy bitch.”

It’s Quinn who surges forward, now, gripping his jaw in one of her hands to the point her nails dig harshly into his skin. “Hey. Watch yourself. You get the rest of your stuff from my house, and I want you gone within the hour.”

“Jesus, you’re _both_ fucking unhinged,” Biff seethes, jerking his head out of Quinn’s grip. Scratch marks sting the edge of his jaw, and he shakes his head, disgusted. “No wonder you love this scum of a town. You two belong here.” He straightens out his tie and stalks off without another word, kicking a dumpster on his way out so that the clanking of metal echoes throughout the whole lot. 

You take a long, deep breath and stomp out the butt of your cigarette before turning to Quinn, whose chest rises up and down, slow but steady. “Are you ok?” 

“Yeah,” she says, her throat bobbing as she swallows. “What were you doing over there?” 

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” you shrug, nodding towards the smushed cigarette on the ground. Your neck cranes towards where Biff walked away before reverting your attention back to Quinn. “You were telling him everything,” you add unnecessarily, shifting on the balls of your feet. 

She’s silent as she smoothes out the wrinkles in her dress. After, she stuffs her hands inside the front pockets. “Maybe you get through to me more than I’d like to admit.” 

“Well, I could’ve told you that.” Your tone is light and easy, and the words cause Quinn’s lips to quirk into a smile that’s barely there. Still, it’s the most you’ve gotten out of her all week, and it tugs at the very bottom of your chest. 

“You look out for me better than anyone,” she mumbles, softly. When it’s all she says, you just shrug. 

“We’re alike in a lot of ways—I think we’re both painfully aware of that. And sometimes, I just...I realize those ways should be bringing us together instead of driving us apart.”

“Yeah,” Quinn whispers in agreement. “Thank you, San.” She takes a half-step closer to you. “I don’t say that enough.” 

You shrug again, but there’s a small smile on your lips now. “What can I say?” You lift a shoulder teasingly, and Quinn rolls her eyes, but in terms of threat-level, it ranks low.

“I don’t say _this_ enough, either, but I don’t regret anything,” she says, and the way she looks at you is thoughtful and serious all at once. And yes, she could be referencing a lot of things—slaps, prom queen ballots, cheerleading captaincies—but you know exactly what she means. 

So, “I don’t either, Q,” you tell her, quietly, as if no one else is supposed to hear. 

She inches towards you again, and you nearly stiffen when she wraps her arms around you and pulls you into a hug.

You can count on your fingers the number of times you two have done this—hugged, just to do it—and on those same amount of fingers, you can count how many times they’ve made you feel like you were holding the weight of the world in your hands. 

So you hug her back, and when your face is buried in those perfectly curled blonde locks, you sigh softly because _there’s_ the waft of vanilla shampoo you didn’t realize you were yearning so badly for since Valentine’s Day last year.

Quinn pulls away after a few seconds, and she presses a gentle, close-lipped kiss to your cheek. You chuckle when she swipes her thumb across the lip gloss that lingers there. “Don’t get me wrong, you can still be such a bitch, sometimes,” she points out, and you laugh again, louder.

“You wouldn’t love me as much if I did.”

“Maybe so.” Her hands retreat back to the pockets of her dress. “You _really_ had to drag me into the Rachel rant, huh?” she nudges your shoulder lightly as you two make your way back into the building

“It felt right,” is all you reason, and Quinn takes it in stride. 

When you return to the choir room, you both go your separate ways, and you shoot Brittany a silent look that says you’re fine, Quinn’s fine, everything’s good.

You keep Quinn company at her house now that Biff is gone—he accidentally left behind some expensive-looking tie, and you both take turns cutting it up into tiny pieces until it looks like a pile of blue confetti—and after you crack open a bottle of Judy’s wine, Quinn gives you a spare set of clothes to borrow so you can spend the night.

You don’t have sex (or even kiss), and there’s a few inches of mattress that separate you two the entire night. But Quinn holds your hand instead of holding your wrist like she once did, and it’s the most at home you’ve felt all week.

**Author's Note:**

> No one asked, but yes the title is taken from the track of the same name on evermore, because frankly I haven't been listening to anything else since its release.


End file.
